Lipstick
by bloodredcherry
Summary: He should have just kept walking.


Lipstick

**Disclaimer**: Nothing and no one, besides the things you do not recognize belong to me. This is for entertainment only!

**Authors note**: I was inspired to write this story from the bracelets that my friend sent me for Christmas and it turned into this little ficlet. This is a one-shot and most likely my only Lost fan fiction. Thanks to chuckleupbuttercup, who is my beta.

**Rating**: PG for language and some disturbing images

Enjoy!

Chaos.

The stench of burning and fear was thick in the air, and thick dark smoke choked the clear blue sky. Screams and cries drowned out the sound of the waves; people who managed to free themselves were spread out around the wreckage. Some trying to help where they could, others stumbled helplessly, looking around with large frantic eyes.

A man stumbled out from behind a large hunk of twisted fuselage. He was wearing a long sleeved black shirt over a dirty blue T-shirt. He was bleeding from a small gash in his forehead, just above his right temple.

He pushed his hair back out of his eyes and looked around at the distruction before him. His head felt thick, and his eyes and nose burned from the smell. He heard choked sobbing and looked over to his left. A woman was crouched over a prone man, who was unconscious—she kept shaking him and his head snapped back and forth. He looked away, towards the edge of the beach towards the jungle.

He took a step forward and tripped, he cursed and looked behind him. His boot was caught in the crook of someone's elbow.

"Shit!" He cursed, jerked his foot forward. He took a deep, shaking breath and was about to push himself to his feet when the hand that was attached to the elbow twitched. He was frozen, until he heard a noise, a strangled cry, then the hand started moving faster, flailing and groping.

He should just turn away. Leave. Whoever that was, wasn't his damn concern. None of these people were; all he needed to do was get away, breath and have a fucking cigarette. So why in the hell was he scrambling over to that arm? Pushing debris away to reveal a body, then a face.

She was young, probably no older than fifteen. Her hair was blond and blood was streaked through it, as well as sand. Her mouth was moving, and tears streamed down her cheeks. He reached across her to move more debris from her left shoulder when she reached up and grabbed his arm. He started, and pulled away. Her fingers closed tighter and her nails dug through the cotton of his shirt. Her nails were painted in a rainbow and she was wearing dented silver bracelets.

She gasped in a deep breath and he pulled away again but she wasn't letting go. He tried to think of what to do.

_Check for injuries_ , a voice at the back of his mind told him. She was staring at him with green eyes, wide eyes that begged for answers that he didn't have.

She had a few cuts and scrapes, and her knee was bent at a bad angle. Other than that she looked all right, but she still wasn't talking. What about internal bleeding? A rib could have punctured a lung.

She could be dying.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and pushed a piece of her hair back from her face. "What's your name sweetheart?"

She didn't reply for a beat, but then finally she opened her mouth.

"Rebecca," her voice rasped from between dry lips, and she coughed, a sound that rattled from her chest shaking her whole body.

He should do something, he should move her, carry her away from the wreckage, away from that damned engine that was still whirring. But he didn't want to hurt her worse than she already was.

She was crying now, out loud, her hand still gripping his forearm. He covered her hand with his and patted it awkwardly. Finally he reached down and struggled for a moment to slip his arm under her shoulders. She finally let go of him and he shook his arm before taking her legs.

She cried out as he lifted her. Even under her jeans he could tell her knee was swollen, he didn't need to be a doctor to know that someone would have to look at it soon. Set it back into place. He turned, trying to see where he could go.

He looked down at her. She was wearing a pink T-shirt, and her bracelet's jingled down her wrist as he made his way across the sand.

Finally he came to a place where it seemed almost cooler, he leaned down and lay Rebecca on the sand. He furrowed his brow, something was off. Her eyes were glazed, but still trained attentively on him. Then he noticed it, the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth, how red her lips were— a disturbing mockery of lipstick.

"Fuck." The word was a rush of air from between his lips. He need to find someone now someone who could help her. He meant to stand, meant to run off and fine anyone who knew what the hell to do.

Instead he sat down, shifting in the sand until he was comfortable. Where was this girl's mother? Could she have been traveling alone when the plane went down? Didn't they have people look after kids who were alone on airplanes? Someone should have been watching her.

She was struggling, and then she swallowed. She opened her mouth, but sound only formed around the second word, "... happened?" They crashed. The stewardess with the big smile and kind voice had come over the intercom. Then the plane jerked forward, and dropped, Rebecca's stomach landed somewhere in her throat and she clutched the armrests as tightly as she could. Then the compartment above her sprung open and a mask fell out.

This kind of stuff only happened in movies. She never paid attention to the safety instructions at the beginning of the flights, and she'd been to visit her Dad three times. Someone else helped her, or at least tried to. Then the plane lurched again, and spun and people screamed.

Rebecca had never seen him before, the man who was helping her now. He smelt good, of cologne and something else and he was warm. His fingers burned across her forehead when he brushed her hair back again.

Something hurt. Something wasn't right. She was damaged.

"The plane," his brow was still furrowed, "it crashed.

"Where are we?"

He shrugged, but covered quickly. "Don't worry, someone was watchin' us, they'll come for us soon."

Rebecca nodded. That was good, her mother would worry. Rebecca's mother had never understood why her father had to move so far away. When she got home Rebecca had a funny feeling it would be her father who would be making the trips from now on.

She kept trying to focus on his face, but he was blurring around the edges. A thought came to her: Maybe this is what dying feels like. Slipping away bit by bit; trying to hold on with an open hand. She didn't want to think about that.

"Hey," he touched her shoulder, bringing her eye's back to him. Her gaze had drifted to the right towards the jungle. "Just hold on." Hold onto what ? He proffered his hand, then took Rebecca's hand in his, swallowing her small fingers with his palm. He never noticed before how cold she was. He rubbed his left hand down her arm. Rebecca shivered, and her mouth opened in a smile her teeth red with blood.

"That tickles," she said softly.

Then almost as suddenly she wasn't looking anywhere anymore, and when he shook her, her head fell to the side and a drop of blood fell into the sand. He gripped her hand tighter and slapped her face. Then he let go and fell back, her hand with the sweet jangling bracelet's fell into the sand and stayed there, still.

He took another deep breath. _What the hell did you expect _? A voice taunted. He didn't know exactly what he'd been expecting. Maybe to get home safe, maybe the fucking plane shouldn't have fallen from the sky.

_And maybe_, Sawyer thought when he finally managed to push himself to his feet.

He should have just kept walking.

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End

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Please review and let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcomed.


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